


One Nine Hundred

by Tangerine



Series: Night's Surrender [3]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-09
Updated: 2000-08-09
Packaged: 2019-05-28 00:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15037181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine/pseuds/Tangerine





	One Nine Hundred

1:43 am. The phone is ringing. 

Why is the phone ringing? It's 1:43 am ...

"Hello?"

"Will you accept the charges from ...?"

"... Jean-Paul."

My heart leaps into my chest and stays there, hovering, ready to explode. If this is bad news ... "yes, yes, of course. Jean-Paul?!"

"Bonjour, mon amour!"

I sit up slightly. I _know_ he's not this chipper on a regular basis. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replies merrily, and I can _feel_ the grin he's wearing, "just felt like talking. In fact, I contemplated running down there to see you, but I am on call, so I picked up the phone to say hello."

"At this hour?"

Jean-Paul ignores my question. "What are you wearing?"

"You're insane."

"What are you wearing, Warren?"

I look down at myself. "You know perfectly well I'm not wearing a thing."

"Neither am I," he confesses, his voice playful, and I can almost see him biting his lips, touching his fingers to his hair, gorgeous in the moonlight. "I am as nude as the day I was born."

"Yeah?" I sit on the edge of the bed. "How's the weather?"

"It's _hot_ , Warren," Jean-Paul says slowly, "very _hot_."

"Damn you, I needed sleep tonight, I have a long and boring meeting in the morning," I reply light-heartedly, crossing my legs to hamper the growing erection I'm sporting. "But okay, I'll play along. I'm beginning to feel like this is one of those one hundred numbers."

"I bet they could not even come close to how I make you feel just knowing that I am sitting on my bed, my body bare, wanting you but knowing you are miles away. Warren, mon amour, I had this dream with you just moments ago."

"Tell me about it?"

"You and I were making love, slow and careful love. You were in me, my erection trapped between our bellies, and it was lasting for hours, a sweet torment. I woke up hard, Warren, I am still hard. I wanted you to be here for this."

"Jean-Paul." I gulp loudly, my buttocks clenching in response to that throaty confession, not quite able to will my thighs to stay together, even more unable to stop my fingers from drifting between my legs. "Are you touching yourself?"

"Yes," he breathes into the phone, "and I am pretending it is you hand, your mouth, taking me in. You feel so wonderful, Warren, you feel so perfect. I am touching my body and I am thinking only of you, only of you."

My hand's fully between my legs now, gripping myself in a fist and not ashamed to be doing so, not ashamed to be so desperate just to hear him speak like this. I haven't seen him for weeks, haven't felt him but I _remember_ , God, I _remember_ how it felt to be with him. "I want to touch you so badly."

"Touch yourself and know that I feel the same between my fingers, a rigid manhood that needs to be stroke and caressed and loved. I need to worship you, Warren. Do you need to worship me?"

"Yes," I hiss. "Jean-Paul, tell me what you feel."

"I feel heat." And in my mind's eye, I can see that pale body, back arching, long legs spread, mouth open and wanton. "And I feel sweat. And flesh, slick and burning flesh, stiff against my palm. Do you feel it, Warren? Do you feel me?"

I moan, stroking in beat with his words. "Yes."

"When I next see you, I am going to take you into my arms and love you for hours, I am going to give you my body. I am feeling it now; my fingers are pretending they are you. I wish so much that it was real. To only think of that first night we had wholly together, I grow hard in public places. It feels like heaven, mon amour, to think this is you between my legs."

I pause then lick the finger on my right hand, breathing heavy. I want to feel it too, but it's been so long since anyone has dared to touch me so deeply. Even then, as a teenager, I wasn't ready to trust such a private part of my body to anyone, but now, now I want him to know what he does to me. "Jean-Paul?"

"Speak to me, use your words."

I press one finger against the tight ring of muscle, trusting myself just as I would have trusted him. It slides in deep with little resistance, my finger brushing against that sacred spot that drives Jean-Paul mad with frenzied desire. "Oh, God. I'm feeling what you feel."

"You are using your fingers?"

"Just one," I breathe, giddy to hear the surprise in his voice, knowing he regards me as impossibly straight half the time and endlessly joking to cover his worry that I'm not as into it as he is when I _am_. "And God, I wish it was you. I wish this was you."

"Do you like it? Does it feel good?"

"Like Heaven," I agree, thrusting that finger into my body, rubbing that sweetly hidden place as my erection leaks onto my belly, feeling abandoned.

"Use both hands," Jean-Paul urges, "lay the phone by your head and listen to me as I listen to you. Be as loud as you dare. Let me hear your need."

Resting on the swell of my wings, my hands curls around my penis as I gasp a quickened breath, listening to the sounds on the other end of the line. Flesh against flesh, a slick sound that speaks of primal sex, and moans of words in French, of my name. I say his, Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, and then I'm coming, loudly, grunting and groaning. He curses loudly, crying my name, and then it is silent, cradled in the afterglow.

"Do you live, Warren?"

I laugh and pick up the phone, making a mess of everything I touch and never having been so happy to do so in my entire life. "I live. And you?"

"Oui," he says, "just realising those one hundred numbers have nothing on you."

I laugh, and we talk until dawn. Who needed sleep anyway?


End file.
